Cue lights!

The lightbulbs are flashing on so fast they’re blinding me. Unfortunately it’s not yet a steady burning of the light bulb but more a wickedly eye-paining burst. Like someone blinking a flashlight on/off/on/off/on/off in your face.

I’m getting bursts of insight, reason, possibilities but not yet any answers or courses of action. And oh! Another flash! It’s really not my place to state the answers or the course of action is it? I identify the problem and lay it in His lap. That’s my job.

I wonder if He’s regretting this particular part of His job? :-)

Okay. So here’s the latest sputter of my internal wiring trying to glow.

I was typing out a comment over on just_his_girl‘s place. This part here:

“Lets say that your submissive part, which is apparently your stronger side, is neglected for a period of time.”

Yes. Let’s just say that my submissive side had failed to adequately be stimulated for a period of time. Then let’s say that my masochist side is stimulated daily.

Of course my masochist side is going to dominate my submissive side.

Now before I go any further I want to point out that I am not laying any blame here. I’m not saying this is His fault at all. These are the circumstances we live under.

He’s gone 5 days a week. And very often, especially lately, He’s gone for weeks at a time. A whole 30 days in Australia! I can’t serve empty air. As a service slave, for the majority of the time, I am essentially useless in that capacity.

I’m not submitting to anyone or anything during the week. Not actively. My submission only kicks in from Friday night to Sunday night. 48 hours out of 168 hours a week is when I get to be a ‘slave’. I get to cook for Him and serve Him His plate. I get to make coffee and keep His cup full(which I tend to forget about) two mornings a week. I get to fetch stuff, get water, grab His clothes, give Him a shower maybe one time on the weekend.

I give a couple of blow jobs, one or two foot massages and offer my ass and cunt for His sexual use.

And a whole large portion of those two days is devoted to other things. Things around the house that need a man’s hand. He takes me grocery shopping. We do stuff with the kids, or have to sit in the living room and watch tv like normal people with the kids. He has His extended family to visit with. He has other hobbies He likes to spend a little time doing too. Fishing, shooting bow, games. And we have to sleep too. He’s tired on the weekends. He works His ass off all week. He needs to veg and chill and relax and all that funky stuff. He needs time to do nothing.

Of the 48 hours that we have, maybe 10 of that is spent doing active submission. Active service or slave stuff. 10 hours a week.

But the masochist …now that’s another story. That bitch is getting catered to. Every day, all week long, I am hurting *myself* at His direction. Every single day. Two hours of butt plugging, 45 mins or so with the tack bra and the scrunchy, 30 mins with nipple clamps. That’s the every day standard. On top of that there is almost always a task like the two hour clothespins today.

The difference between an endorphin rush when I hurt myself compared to when He does it is noticeable, of course but it’s not impossible. I can cause myself some very intense pain. I cannot serve myself and have that same effect.

And when He’s home on the weekend, He feeds the bitch too. All day long, in tiny little nibbles. Nipple tweaks every time I get within arms reach of Him. Swats on my ass every time I walk by. Not to mention that He does try to work in at least one scene on the weekend, so there’s another couple of hours feeding the masochist.

So yeah, I am heavily weighted on the masochist stimulation. My submissive side is starving. Like a growing tumor, the masochist has almost completely integrated itself into the submission, the service. Now we(I) start extracting it.

Some of this, I am (He is) trying to rectify. Following His schedule every day speaks more to the service side of me than the masochist. Though the schedule contains assigned painful tasks, it’s mostly a service contract. Very precise rules about housecleaning, laundry, my diet and exercise. It’s just a process now of realigning my head back into the service aspect of slavery.

When it comes to the contract and the schedule, I am much more eager to get to the task, the painful parts. A lot more excitement, a lot more enthusiasm. It’s noticeably different than how I approach the chores. So I’m definitely seeing the difference between the two sides of me now.

I’m really confident this is going to work itself out in time. We’re already taking out any pain-inducing punishments to cut off my urge to try and ‘earn’ it. He’s already noted that He needs to step up any scenes so that I’m getting my fix for the good stuff and not for the bad stuff.

That negative reinforcement is damaging. Wow. Hindsight, you know?

la_pasajera_k asked me this: “Is there a difference between his ‘angry’ sadism and his ‘play session’ sadism?”

Oh my God. Yes. A BIG difference. And in all reality and perhaps with normal people, it should work that way. I should be afraid of His ‘angry’ side and the resulting way He would ‘punish’ me should be a deterrent.

But it wasn’t. It didn’t end up being that way. Just the opposite in fact.

He’s much nicer when nothing has influenced the scene. He’s more open to listening to me when I whine. He’s much more gentle with His actions. He still might make me cry but it would be a soft, cleansing sort of cry. And yes, that’s appealing too sometimes, to have that light banter during a scene, lots of giggles and ‘ouch you big bastard’.. like the videos I post.

Then there’s the other kind. The kind that I would give my right arm to have stop *in the moment*. The kind that leaves snot dripping down my chest, sobbing so hard I can’t breathe. Where His strokes are hard and fast and He’s not stopping to ask me how I am or what hurts. He’s talking to me exactly how I need to be talked to, He’s beating me down mentally, verbally, physically. He’s trying to hurt me, and succeeding at it and god dammit, I love that shit.

Guess which one I came to crave? Guess which one I could only get by misbehaving?

Holy crap. What a negative cycle I got in. We got in.

And yeah, getting it by less than honorable means did lessen the pleasure of it quite a bit. But not enough to keep me from going after it. Just not enough. It’s not like I would do this ALL the time.. I mean, I was still a fairly good girl. But one time is too many, isn’t it?

If Master said to me that there would be no more service, no more slavery but lots of scenes and sessions and S&M OR no more S&M at all and we’d only have slavery and service, I’d easily go for the S&M. In a heartbeat. Losing the slavery and service would be as painful as losing my right arm, and feel just as foreign, but losing the S&M would kill me.

inward_singer asked me “is there maybe an element of you only submitting and being a slave so that you can get your fix?”

That’s certainly a valid question from the last few entries. I can say though, without a doubt, that I didn’t come into this relationship looking for a fix. I didn’t agree to be His slave with the condition that He’d beat me and humiliate me. I came into it with every honorable intention of being the slave He wants me to be. Things just got horribly lopsided and turned around.

But it’s not unrepairable. Not by a long shot. We will get it right. To quote Master “failure is not an option.”

I know that I’m behind on comments again. And I’ll be offline now until Monday, unless Master lets me back on early. You can help in that begging process by leaving a quick comment here. He will read them. It can be a petition of sorts! A “Let kaya Online You Big Mean Bastard!” petition!

Maybe without the ‘bastard’ part? Yeah. Okay.

Let kaya Online Please Sir! ;-)

~cunt

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Strange goings on

A very strange thing happened today in kaya’s world. I expect to see it on the news tonight. I had expected that people would be standing in the streets with that dazed ‘wtf’ look on their face.. like in the movie War of the Worlds… but when I peeked out the windows it was just another sunny Thursday afternoon for all appearances.

It all leaves me very perplexed.

Time stopped this afternoon. For at least two hours, the clock didn’t move at all.

It wasn’t *just* that I had a very good (and painful) reason to want the clock to move. This was a seriously freaky occurence! I will be glued to the television news reports tonight so I can make sure that the next time I am clamped for two hours, it’s not on a When Time Stood Still day.

Pictures

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Greedy Gus

So my task for titty torture thursday is to wear these nasty little fuckers for two hours.

Pictures

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“You are His slave and a masochist and these two are at odds with each other” -gentlehunter

I’ve had that statement swirling around in my head since yesterday. Interesting isn’t it? And yet, it’s such a simple fact that has somehow alluded me all this time, even though I know certain things.

For instance; I know that not all slaves are masochists. Not all masochists are slaves.
But I never thought about the two being at war with each other. Rather I thought of them as a delicious blend, a recipe for BDSM. The more flavors you add to the pot, the better the taste. Maybe that’s not true at all.

Maybe it is like pouring chocolate syrup on your mashed potatoes. Or maybe too much of one is like adding too much salt to a dish. (I seem to have a food fixation.)

I looked up the definition of ‘masochist’ and the definition of ‘slave’. That’s something I have done countless times since I started this path to self-discovery. There is something about seeing the precise meaning of the words in black and white that I find comforting. It’s a validation, of sorts, when I begin to feel like my freak flag is a bit too bright. After all, it can’t be *too* much of an anomaly if it’s written right there in Webster’s, right?

So let’s compare the two:

slave
1. a person who is the property of and wholly subject to another; a bond servant.
2. a person entirely under the domination of some influence or person
3. a drudge

masochism
1. The deriving of sexual gratification, or the tendency to derive sexual gratification, from being physically or emotionally abused.
2. The deriving of pleasure, or the tendency to derive pleasure, from being humiliated or mistreated, either by another or by oneself.
3. A willingness or tendency to subject oneself to unpleasant or trying experiences.

And let’s look at ‘service’ as well:

service
1. work done by one person or group that benefits another
2. an act of help or assistance
3. be used by; as of a utility;

Notice anything?

They don’t mean the same thing. *lightbulb*

I know alot of people derive pleasure from service. That’s their kink, their attraction. They need to serve, they need to please, they need to be useful that way. They give massages and cook and clean, do laundry, whatever.

I know some people who incorporate no other aspect of BDSM into their lives except for the titles of Master and slave and the knowledge of being owned. There may not be any intense instances of power exchange. He is boss, she is slave, He owns her, she is owned.

There are other people who are strictly sadists or masochists with no power exchange or service at all except for in that moment of interaction.

One does not need the other to work. And one is not necessarily enhanced by the other. They can, as Gentle Hunter has pointed out, be at odds with each other.

Though I’ve said that you have to be careful to find the partner that best matches, or compliments, your desires, there is one thing that Master and I clash on. I see now that it’s a bigger thing than I had been willing to admit to myself.

I am a masochist and I am a slave. If not a blend of each, then two separate pieces of me. Undoubtedly I am more of a masochist than I am a slave. In fact, I’d even say that I am trying to turn slavery into another extension of masochism.

I can do a foot massage because I want to please Him, because I love Him and because I like doing nice things for the one I love. And I truly do want to give Him a foot massage. But, I can resist giving it, I can wait until He tells me to, I can resist a little more and He’ll eventually order me to with a threat of consequences and *that* process stimulates the masochist. It’s ceased being a gift of service and become a degrading ‘chore’.

When I do follow the rules of slavery set down by Master, I do it with the expectation of being rewarded for it with pain or degradation. When it’s responded to with a hug, a pat on the head or any other nicety, the drive to be a good slave diminishes. It’s all about the masochism.

Master, on the other hand, is a bigger Dominant than a sadist. It’s almost parental in a way. You raise kids with rules and structure and as they grow and learn you offer more freedom, more trust, and reward them with niceties. That’s how He tends to approach me.

Even His sadism seems to be directly related to my behavior. If I’ve been a very good slave, when we play, it’s noticeably less intense, less mean. Less pain, less tears, less humiliation. But if He goes into a scene already influenced by a failing of mine, it’s guaranteed to be long, hard and intense. Just the way *I* like it.

He wants a perfect slave. His perfect slave. I know my rules, I know my tasks, I know what service He wants, I know how to behave, how to talk, how to sit/kneel, I know to watch His coffee cup, to watch His plate. He wants rewarded for His efforts put forth to train me so He can finally sit back and be pleased with this service.

Hell, we’re battling each other.

The lovely magdala said this in a post a while back.

“Our little dog Piper has a habit of holding her leash in her mouth and walking herself. That is what it looks like anyways. She prances around with her leash in her mouth and trots across the yard to do what she needs to do. It’s adorable. And she thinks it is cute. But I do not feel quite so cute trotting around with my leash about my neck and in my hand at the same time. Everything I do is up to me. When he is here all I have to do is anticipate his needs and wants, be available for whatever he wants and make sure his coffee cup is full. (…) He says I am a bright woman, I know what he wants and how he wants it and for me to do it.”

“I told him that all he wanted was a barbie doll slave. One who came with everything and he could take her from the shelf and play with her when he wanted to and then put her back when he was done and not think about her again.”

That *is* the ‘reward’ They expect for Their hard work isn’t it?

I’m of the opinion that this is common. That they do see that as the goal of training. The toys, what they may see as the motivators to get us there, can be put away. I’ve read it, time and time again on different journals. “Now that I’m behaving, the ropes and clamps never seem to be brought out anymore.”

And so we begin the process of goading. Of trying to push them into punishment, because negative attention is better than no attention.

How do you fix this? Whats the answer?

magdala has reached this answer.

“My love for him is unconditional. I love him regardless. I would be wise to take a page from that book and apply myself the same when I get in these moods that come from nowhere and I am feeling very selfish and wanting more. It is very unfair of me to expect more from him when I am not doing anything to make him feel like more. When I am only complaining about not getting things that *I* need. That does not in any way shape or form negate my own personal needs, wants or desires. It only means that He has them also and the only choice I have is if I am going to meet them or not. Apparently, recently, I made a choice to not meet them to the best of my ability. Unconsciously, but still a choice. Thank goodness he loves me regardless also.

I cannot do what I am supposed to do, want to do or what he wants me to do because I expect him to return them in kind. I do them because I love him selflessly, unconditionally and I desire his happiness above all. Who could not feel that way about the man who hangs stars in the sky at night just to make her world more beautiful?”

I think I’m still stuck in the idea that if He wants me to behave and respond in a certain way, He has first to feed my addiction. My addiction to masochism, my addiction to the endorphin rush. An endorphin addiction is a very real thing.

pure_blue slapped me in the face with this yesterday; “I’m wondering also just how much of it is a consistency issue and how much of it is you having your nose out of joint over not getting the fix?”

Ouch, huh? :-)

And this is what friends do. If I need sunshine blown up my ass, I can go read The Beauty Series. If I want to know why I’m struggling over real issues I ask my friends.

I am nothing more than a common street junkie looking for a fix. For all my pride over having never done drugs, being such a goody-two shoes square, I am incredibly addicted to the endorphin rush that being a masochist gives me.

I really don’t know what the answer is here for me. I know that I need to work on separating the slavery and service from the masochism, at least enough that I’m not deciding how to respond as His slave based on where I’m at on the endorphin highway. As magdala said, I cannot do what I do with the expectation that He’ll respond in any preconceived way. I cannot base my obedience on what fix that may or may not get me.

He’s going to get His Barbie Doll slave. His cunt in a cage. I’m going to be happy to be played with, and given that junkie fix, when He damn well feels like giving it me. I can’t force it, I can’t demand it, I can’t manipulate it.

He knows, trust me He *knows* very well, just how much I need it. I can’t demand that He give it to me. I can give Him what He demands because that’s my role. It’s not His role to cave to my demands.

What then? Am I doomed to do the junkie shuffle in silence then? Do I try to break the addiction and lessen the masochism? I don’t know! I don’t know what to do with all these realizations.

Why can’t I turn *not* getting it into as much of a masochistic mindfuck as getting it is? That would be so easy.

Well, chores are calling. Onward we go with unanswered realizations.

~cunt

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Sutter

Because the dog always gets left out.

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Consequences

It’s been a month of introspection for me. Don’t I say that about once every 3 or 4 months? Maybe I do. Maybe this whole journey is going to be a ‘month of introspection’. I’m not fighting it though. The revelations I’ve had and the progress I(we) have made this month has been in leaps and bounds, or so it feels. This particular epiphany has been all about punishment.

There are a couple of things that happened to set this particular ball in motion. Part of it was the essays I had to write. Though that wasn’t punishment in Master’s opinion, it was a new thing for me. He’d never assigned essays before, and though I could argue that every journal entry is an essay, sort of, the assigned topics of the essays was new. I had to put some thought and effort into the essays and do a whole lot of thinking about myself, my actions, my thoughts at the time, etc. By the end of it I felt that I had actually learned something about myself, and learned something about the mistake(s) I made. And I realized that’s what punishment should be about. Learning.

The last essay, in particular, was the catalyst I think. I was supposed to write a “corrective measures” essay. Things that I thought should be done to ‘fix’ my recurring issues. I started out fairly strong, I had lots of ideas for what *HE* could do to fix me. But not long in to it, I started fizzling out. Each time I wrote out another paragraph on what He should be doing, I felt a little smaller, a little more guilty and the window of truth opened a little more.

When I gave it to Him, finally, He wasn’t too impressed with it. It seemed rushed, He said. It felt forced. And it contained a whole lot of “I don’t know’s” as a corrective measure. I answered that it felt like I was writing an essay titled “How to dom kaya” by kaya. I was writing a script to hand over to Him, complete with what words to say and what facial expression to wear. It was a fantasy. So I trashed it, and started a new one. One based more on reality, one looking more at myself, and it did indeed contain a lot of “I don’t know’s”.

What was dawning as I wrote the essay was as I detailed each mistake I made, and then tried to formulate an appropriate reaction from Him, I was assigning all this *work* to Him. How to make sure I did this, or did that. How to check up on me, how to get proof. Basically, how to serve me. I finished it up with the “I don’t know’s” because I had a deadline to get it finished by but still needed time to figure things out.

Why… or what had happened in my mind to turn this into a process where He needed to be policing me? When had I lost the truths of me doing what I’m supposed to do because I’m a slave and not because dire consequences waited on the other side? How had I come to the conclusion that He needed to be the one doing the ‘work’ in this?

I had to shelve those questions, those revelations for the moment because it was time for Master to come home. And facing me, or so I thought, was the punishment still for my recent failings. I picked Him up at the airport and within about ten minutes He said “I’m not going to deal with punishment this weekend. I just want to play.”

That right there starts the downward spiral for me. One sentence begins an entire process of negativity. ‘I don’t want to deal with punishment’ translates into ‘I don’t want to deal with you’. It sends the message that I’m not worth correcting. I begin to wonder what exactly *is* worth correcting. What rule, what bit of disrespect, what part of me is worth that effort?

What it does is scare me. It terrifies me. If correcting me and righting my mistakes, by whatever means, is too much work, too much energy, too much effort, I can no longer feel safe about continuing the mental process of becoming His object. Because that takes work and effort, even if He isn’t ‘in the mood’. Am I to be left starving and growing mold in a box because feeding me is too much effort? Is He going to get me halfway to cunt in a cage and change His mind? Decide He’s not in the mood for that anymore?

Consistency is a common complaint among all of us. It’s vital to building the framework for complete submission. I have to know *exactly* where the boundaries are. He can’t be flighty or fickle with this, not when my entire future rests on that framework. Not unless what He wants is exactly what He has. A slave who is struggling, trying to submit but being afraid to do so.

He likes to throw up what I call His Dom Trump Card. “Is it not My right to change My mind?” What can I say to that? Of course it is. But just because He *can* doesn’t mean He *should*. He can change His mind, He can decide to pass over punishment and to ignore mistakes. He can do whatever He wants… but He doesn’t seem to like the results of those rights He has either.

I suspect it’s those things that started the process, the downward spiral of me breaking, or ignoring rules, and waiting for Him to do His part. He wasn’t consistent. Though He’s always consistent with what He expects from me, He’s not always consistent with His reactions when I fail that. I had lost the determination to be pleasing always, because half the time, my failings weren’t displeasing as far as I could tell.

There are some things that He’s always been consistent on. There are things that I never, ever ‘get away with’. And those things I never, ever fail to do.

We’ve talked about this before. His response then was to up the ante. To detail out some incredibly painful or complicated ‘punishment’ that I would either crave, or blow off as an empty threat. He’d set Himself up for failure with these lofty goals that even He couldn’t hold Himself to. It was as effective as Him telling me He was going to throw me off the roof the next time I neglected to say ‘Sir’. We both know it would never happen, so it was completely ineffective as a motivator.

And what wasn’t an impossible empty threat only worked to feed my masochism. I made this entry as a humorous moment but it was truth also. He does tend to detail what He sees as a punishment and I end up craving it. I crave it enough to seek it out so I can get it and His resulting anger and disappointment is an unfortunate side effect. Masochism is an incredibly strong hunger and I will try to feed it if He isn’t. If it’s been too long between hard and heavy scenes, and it is sometimes with the separations we go through, then I will do whatever it takes to force it to happen. And if He doesn’t respond to it as He said He would, I’m left doubting and questioning His word. If He says “if you do A, I’m going to do B” then when I do A, B needs to happen. Anything other than that is exceptionally damaging to my faith in Him.

But over top of all of that was the more recent epiphanies of all this *work* He had to do to keep me in line. And how wrong that is. That I should be submitting and obeying, because it’s what I do and who I am. I want to break this cycle. I read this entry from noyalilith and it spoke to everything I’d been thinking. That’s exactly the cycle He and I had fallen into. Forced submission. I’d stopped offering it and was waiting impatiently for Him to force it out of me. He’d stopped making it something I enjoyed offering freely because He’d caused me to doubt His word one too many times.

And there we were. We’d talked, we’d argued, I’d cried in frustration, He’d slammed His hand down and said “enough God dammit!” but finally, finally, we heard each other. And what next?

My suggestion, initially, was to drop the entire punishment aspect of our relationship. My thinking was that in order to get back to submitting because I want to and not because of consequences, that needed to be gone. He promptly disagreed. He’s too much of a disciplinarian to not have it. And once I’d thought about it, I know I’d miss it too. I like rules, I like structure, I like consequences.

The conclusion we both came to is to then make the consequences something that I am not going to crave while masturbating in the middle of the night. Make them serious learning tools, things that I will not enjoy, not even a tiny bit. Things that He won’t enjoy doing or assigning so that in no way are we inadvertently goading the other into it. He likes to spank me, I like to be spanked. Spanking as a learning tool is ridiculous. No matter how hard He swings or what tool He uses, it appeals to us on a prime level.

And, both of us are tired of the song and dance that’s been going on with me and my failure to adhere to His rules and expectations. He’s ready to see results and I’m still floundering with sticking to it. The other recent realization that He’s not kidding around with what He wants from me has made me sit up and pay attention. If this is what He wants, then I need to make it happen. There are no more acceptable excuses. And if that’s the case, if He’s past the point of putting up with silly reasons and cutesy excuses, then the consequences need to reflect His level of seriousness.

There are a lot of things that can be thought of that I hate to do. Things that don’t appeal to my masochism at all. Writing sentences is a rarely used consequence. I hate it with a passion and it will become a more standard consequence. Having to write a sentence a couple of hundred times works. You will end up with that sentence repeating in your brain for days. Copying the definition of a word out of the dictionary 20 or 30 times is another. What better way to make me internalize what ‘no’ means? Those kinds of boring, time-consuming tasks are effective punishments. But they are also things that don’t require work on His part, only work on mine.

Of course the big one, the one that is the biggest motivator is the computer. My last real connection. My last hobby. Something that I genuinely enjoy. The journal, my friends, my only outlet. I don’t want to lose this and I’m going to have to work to not lose it. And it works. I mean, it really really works. I know that He won’t hesitate a moment to disconnect me and I don’t want to be disconnected. So I am going to toe the line. I’m not sneakily trying to earn this punishment because I don’t want it.

He took me offline for the weekend when He was home. About a day and a half. I had it coming, no argument there, and I *hated* it. This coming weekend I’m off for three days. From Friday morning to Monday morning. It’s not the same as choosing to stay off because He’s home and I want to be with Him. It calls to me.. seriously. The computer mocks me. And it’s habitual to just reach out and grab the mouse as I walk by, pop into hotmail real fast. Can’t do that. And Master, mean old Bastard that He is, will be online and say something like “oh you have 12 new emails.” and not tell me what they are or let me see them.

This impending consequence is serving to temper the addiction though. If I don’t want to be banned then I have to follow His schedule and lists to the letter. That takes an incredible amount of time which is pulling me offline anyway. It simply works all the way around on every level. Even if it does hurt to be taken away from my friends. It’s good practice I suppose.

Another consequence/punishment is denying me things I want. One of the reasons I wrote the post yesterday about sex was to highlight the facts that no matter what else is going on between us, no matter how hard we may struggle with this, we always have that connection. I was also trying to point out that Friday night had been incredible and Sunday night had been incredible.

Saturday night though? Not so much. Saturday was the day that I’d blatantly did something He specifically told me not to, mostly because I was still struggling over the whole “I don’t want to deal with punishment” statement He’d made. After He’d seen what I did, there was a quick physical punishment that I’m going to gloss over because it only served to stimulate my masochism and was totally ineffective. It included spanking, nipple clamps and kneeling on painful materials in the corner. Is there any masochist out there that isn’t clenching their thigh muscles at the thought of doing that for fun?? Right. Me neither. But what He did following that is what worked.

He’d left me in the corner with orders to not make a sound. Then He disappeared. He was gone for a long, long time. He finally came and got me, pulling me into the other room, pointed to the floor and said “lick up My mess.” There, on the floor that hadn’t been cleaned, amidst dirt and dog hair and who knows what else was a puddle of cold sperm. Cum whore or not, cold, congealed sperm on a dirty floor, coupled with the realization that He’d masturbated rather than fucking me, was *hard* to deal with. My stomach was as unhappy with it as my head was. Then He put me to bed and went off to do whatever. That was the effective punishment. Ignored and denied. Denied the play that He’d planned on doing because I’d been “bad” and needed to be corrected. Denied the amazing sex that we usually have. Denied time spent with Him. Sent to bed and ignored for the rest of the night.

~~*~~

I seem to have run out of steam. Master has called me twice in the last 5 minutes and it’s completely thrown off my thought process. I love His voice. *dreamy sigh* This is long enough anyway.. :D

~cunt

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Sex

Master and I have really great sex. Even if it was bad sex it would be good sex. He’s very good at what He does. It’s been that way since the first time we fucked. He blew me away and left me a shaking, incoherent mess on my bed. My bed that He broke with His wild and crazy moves. (And then fixed before He left. Such a gentleman. Fuck me til my boxspring snaps, screw it back together and leave. :P)

I used to be a silent bed partner. A really quiet lay. Okay, I was a dead fuck. I know I was. I routinely didn’t orgasm but if I did, my partner would never know it unless I told them. I blamed it on the kids, you know, have to be quiet so they don’t hear anything. The truth is, there was nothing to be moaning about. I had a crap sex life.

I had an amazing masturbatory sex life though. That was the only way that I was sure there was more to sex than what I was getting and that’s what kept me from giving up on sex all together.

I screamed, for the first time ever in my entire life during an orgasm the first time we fucked. He had me right there. I was His.

These days, quiet is not an accurate description of me in bed. I moan, I pant, I cry out, I beg. I scratch and grunt and cuss and growl so hard my throat will hurt. He’s quieter than I am nowadays. Well, that’s not necessarily true. He talks. In sentences even. I can’t talk. I listen, and I growl. Often, I’ll emit some unmistakable sex-sound and it’ll seem to echo throughout the room. Then I’ll put my finger to my lips and shush Him like He did it. That makes both of us giggle.

I very often cry when it’s over, too, the first time we have sex after He’s come home. No big production, no sobs or snot. Just a slow and steady leak of tears and an overwhelming sense of being home, safe and loved. I just let them flow, wipe them away. They stop soon enough.

We both have a high sex drive, though His is higher than mine. Knowing how He is now, I can’t imagine how He must have been at 18 or 20. Those poor girls.

There was one time, a year or so ago I guess, we’d just finished having sex. About the time you roll over, bathed in sweat and stare wide-eyed at the ceiling, throat parched, chest heaving, genitals tingling. When you trip all over each other trying to compliment the other one. “Oh GOD You are good in bed!”, “No, YOU are.”, “Nuh-uh, you are!”, you know the time? Anyway, He’d sat up to look at me, I looked at Him and at the same time we both said “Oh my god, you’re bleeding!” He had blood smeared across His chest and I had blood smeared across my face. Not that we are strangers to blood but when it seems to come out of nowhere, it’s shocking. After much scrambled feeling all over ourselves for damage, it was noticed that I had a bloody nose. I’d either strained and growled and came so hard that I popped a vessel in there or I’d mashed my face into His collarbone and ribs hard enough to give myself a nose bleed and didn’t even notice it. Sex that’s good enough to leave anyone with an unnoticed bloody nose is damn good sex.

We had good sex this weekend. He rocks my world. He lights my fire. He does it all. I have no control over my body, my reactions. I’m soft, pliable, and He just takes it. Whatever, however, whenever.

Friday night. Twice He fucked me while I was wearing the tack bra. He’s not gentle with it and how it happens that every one of those tiny points isn’t stabbed directly in to my breast tissue I have no clue. He lays on me, full weight, and mashes them in with His chest while He fucks me. He props Himself up and kneads them with His hands, pinching and slapping and twisting.

The sensation is so powerful, that sweet blend of pain and pleasure. I’m partial to breast pain, especially the nipples, which were being jabbed with the cluster of tacks I specifically placed there. I’m partial to a big cock pumping away in my cunt. I’m partial to His voice in my ear, telling.. no, demanding that I come for Him right now. Demanding that I send my cunt spasming over His cock while He caused me to scream, half from the pain in my breasts, half from the pleasure of the orgasm. I’m partial to multiple orgasms that don’t really seem to end so much as they flow in waves. One is just tapering off when He grabs another handful and squeezes, and slams His cock as far in as it will go and with as much force as He can and hisses in my ear, did I say you could stop coming? don’t you DARE stop coming. and another hits me, making my eyes cross.

I’m partial to sex like that.

Afterward, He laid me across the foot of the bed with stern orders to stay. He sat, propped up against the headboard. We made an “L”, with me as the bottom. With the tack bra still on, He used me as a footrest, carefully, and cruelly, placing His heels directly on top of each breast. Feet are heavy. Much heavier than you think they are, and felt even heavier with the tacks under them being driven into my already tender boobs. I stayed there while I cried, my usual post-sex steady leak of tears, pinned neatly in place under His feet and in pain.

I’m partial to snuggling after sex just like that.

But of course, after my tears had finally dried up, the facts of laying under His feet while He ground those tacks into my chest made me needy again, my cunt leaking onto the comforter with as much of a steady flow as my tears had previously been leaking down my cheeks. He pulled me up to Him, sitting me in front of Him and pulling me back against His chest. While He slapped and crushed my breasts between the tacks, I masturbated, coming when He told me, His warning in my ear… “I’m going to squeeze them hard cunt, very hard. When I do, I want you to come for me. Ready?”

What kind of choice is that? Yes of course I’m ready to come. Am I ready for the blinding pain that’s about to be laid into my boobs? It doesn’t matter, does it? It’s coming whether I manage to orgasm around it, with it, or not. I barely whispered out a “yes Sir” before He laid into them and I scrambled to capture that dancing orgasm to offset the intense pain that radiated across my chest.

Two other times this weekend we fucked. Both times on Sunday night, one right after the other when we should have been sleeping. Both times without bondage, without toys, without tacks. Hot, sweaty coupling in the dark of the bedroom, fervent, desperate. After each one I milked His cock with my mouth, drawing every last drop of Him until He swatted me away like a pesky mosquito.

I fell asleep with the sweet taste of His sperm on the back of my tongue. His lighter and candy-like taste made more noticeable when I licked my lips, where my own juices that had been coating His cock had been left there as I drained Him, a thick and tangy cunt-flavored lip gloss.

I’m partial to falling asleep with those tastes directing the course of my dreams.

We have good sex, Master and I. Damn good sex.

I’m partial to Him.

~cunt

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Dusty on youtube

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Daily task/picture

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Time

I wanted to do a post tonight but I’m out of time. It’s bedtime. By morning I’ll have lost it probably.

Master is being, well not just strict but severely strict. I’m not complaining. Okay I am a little… I’m just having a hard time with the adjustment.

There were a lot of big internal changes made these last few days. I swear, just about once a week I think I’m standing on the edge of the last cliff. I jump, only to find I’ve landed on a tighter ledge with a steeper jump in front of me.

We spent some time this weekend pulling old insulation out of a storage space upstairs. Next weekend (or sometime soon), Master is going to put the good stuff in there. It’s not just to keep that space warmer, but that is the first step in a line of many to create the master bedroom/bathroom/dungeon/playroom that we want in the basement. Complete with cunt-keeping storage space built directly under the stairs. A tiny wooden room, a box really, tucked away under the basement steps.

Shoot. I have to go. I’ll try to hold on til tomorrow sometime. Master is loading me down with chores, and this journal, the computer, is not among them. If I want this, I have to work for it. Him, and His stuff, His rules, His chores, His tasks, that all comes first. And His list of stuff is no minor thing. Not by a long shot.

I can’t get into it all. I don’t have time. Sorry.

~cunt

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